Turn 147 of 233

Push for the three-day finish tomorrow and celebrate with the crew. Call Janet and tell her Kimo is crawling at two months.

The crew arrives at five-thirty Wednesday morning and Lena is already on the pad and the pad is wet with dew and her feet are dark with it and the frame is ninety percent and the ten percent is what today takes. She stands in the center of the half-built house and the house is close and the closeness is the thing she can feel in her teeth — the last headers, the last studs, the last sheer panels, the last strapping ties. The crew gathers and the gathering is quiet and the quiet is the quiet of men who know today is the day.

"Ten percent left," Lena says. The tongue piercing clicks and the click is sharp in the morning air.

"We finish today. Not tomorrow. Not tonight. Today. Marco, nail gun with me — headers and sheer panels. Daryl, lumber flow — everything staged by the wall, not at the saw. Frank, you're cutting to call, not to plan. I tell you what I need, you cut it, it's there. Ray, plans — walk ahead of me and flag anything I'm going to hit. Tuki, cleanup behind us — I don't want to be tripping over scraps at four o'clock. Walt, final walk at three."

"Three?" Walt says. The coffee is in his hand and the coffee stops.

"Three."

The work starts and the work is fast. Lena and Marco frame the last headers by seven and the headers are clean and the O-line leverage holds — hips low, belly counterweight, the nail gun barking in the rhythm the crew knows. Kimo is in the harness and the boy is humming and the humming is the drone that the site runs on. Frank cuts to call and the cutting is immediate — Lena shouts a measurement and the saw screams and the wood is there before she turns around. Daryl stages studs against every wall and the staging is tight and the tightness means no one waits. Ray walks the plans ten feet ahead and flags two issues before Lena reaches them and the flagging saves twenty minutes. Tuki sweeps behind them and the sweeping is constant and the scraps are gone before they pile.

By noon the frame is ninety-seven percent and the crew eats on the tailgate and the eating is fast — sandwiches and water and Tuki's plantains and the plantains are gone in four minutes. Lena eats three sandwiches and a container of rice and drinks a gallon of water and Kimo nurses in the harness and the nursing is the nursing of a boy who has been on the site since birth and the site is his dining room. The boy is dusty and the dust is in his hair and in the folds of his neck and the dust has been accumulating since he was born and the accumulating is the accumulating of a boy who has never been washed and the never being washed is not neglect. The skin is healthy. The skin is dark. The skin is the skin of a child who lives outdoors and the outdoors is the skin's business.

One o'clock and the last sheer panel goes up and the panel is square and the squareness is the squareness Lena checks with the level and the level is true. Two o'clock and the last strapping ties are nailed and the nails are flush and the flushness is the flushness the inspector will check on Friday. Two-fifteen and the frame is done and the frame is done at two-fifteen and two-fifteen is not three o'clock and three o'clock was the promise and the promise is beaten by forty-five minutes.

Lena stands in the center of the finished frame and the frame is around her and the frame is good. The walls are plumb. The corners are square. The studs are sixteen on center and the spacing is exact. The headers are level. The sheer panels are flush. The structure is the structure and the structure is the best one yet — better than the first house, better than the second, better than the third, better than the fourth. Lena knows this because Lena built it and the knowing is not arrogance. The knowing is the knowing of a woman who has been doing this for over a year and the doing has made her someone who knows.

Walt does the walk at two-thirty. The walk is slow and the level is in his hand and the tape is in his other hand and he checks every corner and every stud and every header and the checking is the checking of a man who has been doing this for thirty years. The walk takes twenty minutes and the twenty minutes are quiet and the quiet is the quiet of a crew watching a man decide what to say.

"Three days," Walt says. The voice is flat and the flatness is the flatness of a man who is looking at something good.

"Better than the last one. Corners are tighter. Stud spacing is dead on. You beat your own time by forty-five minutes."

The crew is on the tailgate and the cooler is open and Marco has beers and the beers are cold and the cans open and the hissing is the hissing of a day that is done. Daryl nods his slow nod. Frank says nothing. Ray smiles — the full Ray smile, the rare one, the one that means something. Tuki raises his can and the raising is the raising of a man who is happy and the happiness is simple and the simple is enough.

"Three days," Marco says. "She said three days and she did it in two and change."

"Two and change," Daryl says. The nod is slower than usual and the slowness is respect.

Lena sits on the tailgate with a beer and Kimo is on the blanket beside her and the boy is crawling — the same lurching, the same determination, the same humming — and the crawling is the crawling of a boy who has been doing this for two days and the two days have made him faster. He crosses the blanket twice during the celebration and the crew watches and the watching is the watching of men who have seen a lot of things on construction sites and have not seen a two-month-old crawl across a blanket in the shade of a trailer while the beer is cold and the frame is up and the frame is good.

In the truck on the way home Lena calls Janet. The phone rings twice and the voice is the voice she knows — warm, careful, the voice of a mother who is always waiting for the phone to ring.

"Mom."

"Lena. How are you, sweetheart?"

"Good. The house is done. Three days. We beat it by forty-five minutes."

"That's wonderful. Samuel will be — that's wonderful."

"Also — Kimo's crawling."

The line is quiet. The quiet is the quiet of a grandmother processing something.

"He's crawling?"

"Since Monday. On the site. On his blanket. He crosses the whole thing — edge to edge. He did it four times Monday and twice more today."

"He's two months old, Lena."

"I know."

"Babies don't crawl at two months."

"Kimo does."

The line is quiet again and the quiet is longer this time and the longer is the longer of a grandmother who is deciding what to do with information that doesn't fit the schedule. Janet decides what Janet always decides — she decides to love it.

"Send me a video," Janet says. "Samuel needs to see this."

"I'll send it tonight."

"Lena —"

"Yeah."

"He's — is he okay? He's healthy?"

"He's perfect, Mom. He's building his own chart."

"His own chart," Janet says. The voice is thick and the thickness is the thickness of a grandmother who is proud and scared and proud and doesn't know which one to lead with.

"Send me the video."

"I'll send it tonight," Lena says. The line goes quiet and the quiet is the quiet of two women who love the same boy and the loving is the thing that holds and the holding is the structure.